


Detective Shows and Magic Tubs

by lunaraindrop



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Attempted Murder, BAMF Stiles, Bombs, Canon Divergence, Castle References, Derek is a Softie, Derek is the King of Stiles' Board, Explosions, F/M, Implied Johnlock, M/M, Mild Language, Minor Injuries, Nobody died, Season 4 retelling of sorts, Season/Series 4 AU, Sherlock References, Stiles is not dating Malia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 09:25:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5580211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunaraindrop/pseuds/lunaraindrop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dying Kate Argent wants to get her last hurrah by "burning the heart of out of" Derek Hale once and for all.</p>
<p>Too bad Stiles watches Castle, and knows bathtubs save lives. Also, how is it possible that Derek can pull off being doting and stoic at the same time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Detective Shows and Magic Tubs

**Author's Note:**

> Season 4 AU/retelling of sorts. Stiles is not dating Malia. Kate is still a werejaguar.
> 
> This has been sitting on my computer for a while, but I wanted to share it with everyone. =)
> 
> Reviews and Kudos= Love!

_Kate Argent dragged her wolfsbane poisoned body into the loft. The gunshot wound that her own brother inflicted on her was throbbing something painful, yet all she could do was laugh to herself. Yes, she knew she was either going to die a very painful death, or face the humiliation of being healed…and then imprisoned in a facility like Eichen House. She knew that she was now one of those filthy abominations that her family had hunted for generations. She hated what she became, but unlike poor Victoria, Kate’s vengeance and will to survive were stronger._

_If she was either going to die, or be locked away for being the beast she became, she was sure going to leave a lasting memory._

The sounds of screeching tires and pounding feet were coming her way.

_She smiled and she propped herself up on the couch. Unlike the last house she had lurked in, this one did not have Netflix._

_Pity._

_She really wanted to watch some more_ Sherlock _. Say what you will about the Stilinski’s, but they did have great taste in home entertainment. And a cozy basement._

_Kate knew they would come for her at the loft, dear Derek leading the charge. She counted on it._

_Her dear, sweet, broken Derek, who refused to give up despite losing everything he loved._

_She giggled as she drooled out something foul, thick and black. They were closing in. She knew they were going to try and cage her in like an injured animal. Maybe trap her with mountain ash, like she did to the Hale family._

_Oh, but Der-bear did not lose everything he loved. At least not yet._

_She looked down at her cute little screw driver in her hand. It had been a gift to her from her own father some odd years ago. That little screwdriver, along with her other tools, had led to many fun projects._

_She was quite proud of the one she did that very night._

_They may have known that she would come here, to get to Derek, but they were really dumb._

_It was the place she was before, earlier in the day, that goodie-goodie Scott McCall and his rag-tag bunch of mongrels should have been worried about._

_If Kate was to die as a were-creature, or be forced to live her days as a caged animal, then she was going to make it worth her while._

_Kate Argent was going to go out with a BANG. She was finally going to finish the job._

_If she was going down, she was going to take Derek Hale with her. She was going to take him down the best way she knew how._

_Derek might get back up like the most annoying punching bag, because his body had supernatural healing. No, to take Derek down, for her to get her vengeance, she needed to aim where it hurts._

_For once and for all, she was going to beat Derek down, by snuffing out his heart._

The windows and doors busted in.

_Kate smiled._

_“What took you guys so long? I was about to think Series Four of_ Sherlock _would come out before you found me.”_

\---

 

Stiles had seen it on an episode of _Castle_ once.

_Castle_ was one of the few shows he and his dad could sit down and watch together. At the time, he and the sheriff had been on pins and needles to watch the season premiere, wondering how Beckett survived her apartment being blown up.

_“Oh come on!”_ he had complained at the time, _“there is no way that she could have survived that type of blast, naked might I add, by jumping back into the bath tub!”_

He couldn’t remember if his father agreed with him or not, (he kinda-sorta remembered him grunting something about the magic of television), but he did remember jumping on Tumblr that night, discussing how it may or may not be scientifically possible.

Ironically enough, that all didn’t seem to matter in that moment. As he stepped into his living room and heard the reverberating _click_ of a tripped switch, all Stiles could think of, in that split second before turning tail, was how he needed to jump into the tub if he wanted to survive.

As he turned the corner of his childhood home, passing the cornsilk colored wallpaper his mom picked out to “brighten up” the hallway, he felt the flush of heat attempting to lick at his back, just out of reach to get a taste of his flesh through his flannel shirt.

With just seconds to spare, Stiles tripped into the bathroom, slammed the door, and threw himself into the porcelain tub. He yanked the shower curtain down over his curled body just in time to shield himself from the blasted door shards and angry, monstrous, **hungry** heat that was trying to quickly swallow him whole.

\---

In a manner of seconds that felt like hours, Stiles took assessment of his situation.

His ears were ringing something fierce.

His body felt battered and bruised, aching like had been hit by a U-Haul. Taking a second to wiggle his fingers and toes, he figured that he luckily didn’t have anything major broken.

His throat felt dry, and his mouth tasted of ash, but he didn’t exactly have the trouble breathing one would expect from a house fire.

Peaking over the rim of the tub, Stiles could see why.

His eyes widened comically at the slight in front of him.

“Oh damn…that’s my Jeep…in the driveway. I can see my Jeep in the driveway.  That used to be a wall.”

The reason he could breathe as well as he could, was because **the whole entire front of his house** was just... **gone**.

Taking a moment to rein in the panic at knowing that his entire living room, and possibly part of his room upstairs blew to smithereens, he shifted around in the tub to get a better look around.

Noticing the tiny splotches of fire and smoldering ash here and the on the existing walls and support beams, Stiles knew he needed to get out of the house, and quickly. It might have been a flash fire, more of a _wham, bam, thank you ma’am_ of pyrotechnics , and he might not have to worry about inhaling too much smoke due to the **gaping hole** that used to be the front of his house, but he was still in danger.

The tub might have saved him, but the house was still on fire.

Also, somebody had set that fire, and picked a time when he would be the only one home. It could be a total coincidence, but he didn’t think so.

Every night for the past two weeks, the sheriff had been having Stiles’ attempts of home cooked healthy dinners at home before taking the night shift at the station. Without fail, the sheriff would be out of the house by 7:00 pm. It was about 9:45 when the bomb went off, because Stiles had grabbed a snack before going to watch his show at 10:00.

Ironically, he was going to watch _Castle_.

That bomb, ( _Holy crap, he had been **bombed**_ ), had been professionally set up, he could tell. It had been artfully crafted to be discreet, and to be quietly tripped when he walked into his living room from the dining room from what he guessed was a tiny pressure plate as a trigger. It was meant to ignite fast, burn bright, and go out swiftly. Unlike the Hale fire, the people who set this up were not trying to make attempts of making this look like an accident.

This fire of the Stilinski home was a showcase.

This bombing was a deliberate _attack_.

 This fire was not meant to injure the sheriff. Oh no, whoever set the trap set it for _him_.

Steeling himself for the pain, Stiles flinched, flailed and groan as he tumbled out of his saving grace of a bathtub. On the ground, Stiles pet the side of the porcelain with his stiff fingers.

“I swear, _never_ replacing you. I might have to take you with me to my college dorm if dad decides to remodel after all of this. Who needs to sleep in a bed when you have a magic lifesaving tub, am I right?!”

He shook his head.

“Okay, no more talking to the tub Stiles. You need to talk to somebody else, preferably with teeth and claws, or at least can wield weapons.”

He pushed off of the floor to stand, only to feel his head rush, vision swim, and feet stumble into the newly crumbly wall.

“Oh great, let’s add concussion to the list of problems! Whoa, talking is hurting my brain, like wow. “

He huffed out a laugh at himself.

“Where’s Derek when you need? _‘Stiles can’t talk without pain? Ha!’_ He’d have a field day.”

Stiles placed a hand on his temple as he continued to slide his way across the wall.

_“Focus,”_ he thought to himself, _“need to call for help. Where did I put my phone?”_

He remembered calling Scott right before heating up his nachos, and leaving it in there to charge. He had been pissed off that he was essentially told to stay home. In the middle of Scott giving him the details, Derek had taken Scott’s phone and told him to not even **think** about joining up with them. Apparently psycho-minded Kate plus uncontrollable were-jaguar equaled for human pack members to be grounded from manhunt business. It was supposed to keep him safe.

Stiles huffed to himself. Fat lotta luck that did him now.

Avoiding the smoldering fallen beams, Stiles ambled his way into the almost untouched kitchen, save for a coating of ash and dust.

Sitting innocently on the counter, next to the knocked over toaster, was his ringing phone.

_“Oh, I guess all of the ringing was not all in my head.”_

Through the soot on his screen, Stiles could make out the letters ‘e’ ‘r’ and ‘k’.

_“Speak of the handsome wolfy devil. Derek’s calling me?”_

Stiles slipped his thumb a couple of times across the filthy screen, trying to answer his phone.

“ ‘lo? Derek?” he said as he clumsily, but hurriedly made his way to the gaping hole that was the front of his house.

“Stiles!” Derek yelled through the phone. The former Alpha’s tone made Stiles’ crowded mind crystal clear for a moment. In all the time Stiles knew Derek, he had never heard him use that tone of voice before. Sure, Stiles had heard Derek yell at him before, and had heard him bark out warnings and orders in dangerous situations before. However, Derek, in just that one yelped word, told Stiles a thousand things he never expected to hear from Derek Hale. Derek, with just saying his name, sounded absolutely panic stricken, vulnerable, and deathly **afraid**.

It made Stiles pause. Forgetting the wreck of his surroundings, Stiles felt the unbearable need to comfort and protect the man that secretly held his heart.

“Derek, what-what is it? Are you okay? What happen-“

“STILES, GET OUT OF THE HOUSE! Go as far away as you can! There’s a bomb-”

Stiles stepped over a singed wall onto his lawn. Using as much forward momentum he had, Stiles let his lumbering feet and legs dizzily tango across the lawn, as far away from his house as he could get without going into the street.  Sitting down on the grass, Stiles watched his childhood home faintly burn in a detached fashion.

“Yeeeah big guy, kinda old news here. My bathtub saved me, but I’m pretty sure I’m in shock. Also pretty sure I have a concussion. Can you maybe come get me, and take me to the hospital, because I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be driving? And call my dad? And Scott? Oh, maybe the Fire Department?”

He heard an engine rev through the phone.

“It already…come get…bath tu-where are you Stiles?! Tell me where you are!”

“My front lawn, via the hole that used to be my living room wall. Convenient huh?”

“Shut up. Stay there, and don’t go anywhere until I get to you.” Derek said in a stern tone.

The line went blank with a _click._ His whole night was a series of clicking noises. With a shrug, Stiles disinterestedly dropping the phone in the grass. If his phone could stand a bombing, it would be okay on the lawn. Hoping the earth would catch him like a crowd surfer at a concert, Stiles fell back on a sea of green and dehydrated brown. He knew he should be worried that he had some major medical problems, especially with a possible head injury. He knew that he should _maybe_ get farther away from the house that almost turned him into flambé. Heck, he knew that he should be looking out for who set the bomb in the first place.

Instead though, he closed his eyes against the dark sky, and _let go_.

Just this once, he would wait and let Derek save _him_.

_“It should really say something that I feel relieved that Derek sounds like his normal angry self. God I hope he doesn’t punch me to wake me up.”_

\----

Derek didn’t punch him. He did the exact opposite.

The once sourwolf gently cupped his cheek and called him back to consciousness.

Derek would not let him walk into the hospital on his own. He carried him bridal style. Normally, Stiles would have been indignant, and insisted that he was not an invalid and could walk on his own. His best friend might be a werewolf and he may be a squishy human, but he was a tough squishy human thank you very much. Stiles was the fresh, pre-chewed bubblegum in the package, not the gooey mess to be left under an Econ desk.  

However, all his brain could say in that moment was _‘Oh my God, shut up! Derek Hale is carrying you in his massive muscly arms, and he smells sooo good, a hell of a lot better than the ash in your nose.  You just survived a house bombing, you lost your nachos, and you have injuries that you can use as an excuse later. Damsel it up baby, because you may never get this chance again!’_

Hours later, after being subjected to Derek's version of doting, (yes, Derek Hale doted on one blissful, yet achy Stiles Stilinski), Stiles was safely in a hospital bed. The experience was somehow like being endearingly mother henned to the extreme...by grumpy cat on steroids.

Stiles did not know it was even possible for somebody to stoically fluff pillows, yet Derek proved him wrong.

Derek tried and failed time and time again to look like he was not acting like Stiles’ personal bubble wrap (and making Stiles feel over the moon because, _‘Oh my God, since when did Derek start acting so protective?!_ ’). Stiles also had to deal with said werewolf almost growling at the hospital staff if they got too close, and were not Melissa McCall.

If he needed water, Derek held the cup to his lips. If he was getting blood taken, Derek told him surprisingly corny jokes to distract him from the needle. If he was getting too cold, he covered him with the scratchy hospital blanket.

Derek only let up his brooding Florence Nightingale routine when his father and the entire Pack showed up. Even then, he only left to go get Stiles a strawberry milkshake from the cafeteria. (Stiles always hated the hospital food.)

 It was after everyone calmed down, Derek and Scott drained some of his pain, and Derek snuck him in _another_ strawberry shake that he finally got some answers.

According to Scott, the still undead Kate, who was dying again from wolfsbane poisoning, decided to get her last hurrah by targeting Derek again, and getting him where it hurt most.

That made Stiles interrupt.

“Wait, that doesn’t make sense. Why blow up _my_ house if she was after Derek? Wouldn’t it make more sense to blow up the loft?”

Everyone except Scott looked away, trying to not catch the teen’s eye. Derek looked down at his hands.

Scott, however, nodded. “See, I thought that too! So when she said that ‘abominations could set bombs’ and she was going to ‘burn the heart out of Derek’, I thought she was going to, like, shoot Derek with an exploding flaming arrow.”

Stiles let out an indignant squawk.

“Kate Argent quoted _Moriarty_?! Oh that’s great, now I can’t watch _Sherlock_ without thinking of that psycho bitch!”  

His eyes narrowed as his words caught up to him.

“Wait. She said that particular phrase? And you figured out it was me?”

Kira, (Scott’s adorable geeky kitsune girlfriend and Stiles’ buddy for fandom(s) related squee), piped up from the armchair in the room.

“Actually, it was Derek who figured it out. As soon as Kate said that, he whipped out his phone and called you. Then he ran out the door before Scott and I could catch up.”

From the look Kira was shooting him, he got the feeling like she was trying to tell him something-

Oh.

Oh!

OH HELL YEAH

“Everyone out except Derek!”

Scott shot him a slightly hurt look.

“Dude, wha-“

Stiles just shook his head.

“Nope. Buddy I love ya, but I think Derek and I have some important things to talk about. Right now.”

Kira grabbed his elbow as the sheriff pat Scott on the back.

“Scott, sweetie, trust me, you don’t want to be in here.”

“I agree with her.” The sheriff shot his son a look. “You’ve got fifteen minutes, and please remember that you are in a hospital.”

Lydia rolled her eyes but winked at the pair as she left the room. “It’s about time. Remember that you are still hooked up to monitors Stiles. Don’t do anything that makes the nurses think you are having a heart attack.”

In the emptied out room, a stoic and nervous looking Derek stood at the side of Stiles bed.

He cleared his throat.

“You wanted to talk, Stiles?”

Stiles scooted over on the bed, and pat the empty space next to him.

“Not so much to talk, honestly. I’ve just survived my house being blown up by Kate freakin Argent, because she and apparently every else knew that I was the ‘ _heart to burn out of you’_. I’m tired, I’m achy, I have three cracked ribs and a concussion, and I most likely do not have a bed anymore. Can we skip the love confessions and go straight to the making out and snuggling?”

Bemused but hopeful and happy looking for a change, Derek sat next to Stiles on the hospital bed.

“For now. We do have things to talk about. Important things.”

“Yeah yeah, buddy, now get your lips over here. I want to feel your tongue in my spleen.”

Derek stared at him for a second. Not needed to be told twice, he closed the distance between them. Slowly, as if Stiles really was made of fragile bone, the wolf captured the younger man’s lips with his own. He used his calloused hand to frame Stiles’ bruised cheek.

While Stiles was doing an internal happy dance that the universe decided to give him the jackpot by delivering Derek Hale into his lap, all this _soft_ and _careful_ crap had to stop. He damseled it up, he let himself be pampered. However, it was time to remind his _probably-hopefully_ new boyfriend what he was signing up for. That personified heart Kate Argent tried to burn out of Derek? That heart was no delicate Snow White Disney princess.

Hello no.

That heart was a freaking John Watson. And John Watson was a badass.

Surprising Derek, Stiles yanked him by his Henley and kissed him for all he was worth. Stiles thread his fingers through Derek's thick hair, and let their lips crashed together over and over with a little growl. After that, Derek did not hold back. Pushing back, Derek gasped raggedly as he licked into Stiles mouth, desperate to show just how much he cared.   

Melissa McCall walked into a very interesting scene a few minutes later.

“Boys? You might want to put some of those clothes back on before the sheriff gets back. Oh and Stiles? Set your butt back in that bed. You are going to upset your bandages in that position.”

 

 

* * *

 

Three years later, Derek surprised his fiance with a newly remodeled bathroom, equipped with the magic lifesaving bathtub Stiles managed to get away from his dad.

Later that day, Stiles and Derek shared a bath.

Magic tub, indeed.

* * *

 


End file.
